


17 Black

by romanllama



Category: Harry Styles - Fandom, Louis Tomlinson - Fandom, Medicine - Harry Styles (Song), One Direction (Band)
Genre: 17 Black, AU Fic, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Job, Clubbing, Crossposted to Wattpad, Dancing, Hand Jobs, Just you wait - Freeform, M/M, Making Love, Making Out, Multi, OT4, Object Penetration, Rim job, Rimming, Rockstar!Harry, So much angst, Strippers & Strip Clubs, dance, rockstar - Freeform, strip club, stripper!Louis, the band always had 4, there will be smut, what else
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-09-25 19:29:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17127368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanllama/pseuds/romanllama
Summary: And there he was, in all his glory--the most beautiful boy Harry had ever seen. His hand stopped shaking for the first time all night, and he felt as though his surroundings were slipping away, his memories dripping down the wall alongside the peeling paint, as he took in the breathtaking sight before him. The boy's eyes scanned the crowd before landing right on Harry, holding his gaze for a moment longer than what seemed normal before, with a small smirk, he began to dance. And, for once, Harry didn't seem to mind.---or, a story where one direction always had four boys, 17 black was a strip club, harry is still the gentleman rockstar we know him always to be, louis was a talented stripper and, somehow, despite all the odds, the prince still fell in love with the one with the cheekbones.





	1. Golden Palace -- Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> crossposted to wattpad under the same name under the account name romanllama. holla at ya girl if you like it. enjoy<3

It was always the lights that seemed to call Harry in.

It wasn’t ever on purpose—being an international rockstar, there wasn’t much time for relaxation, and, whenever there was, he didn’t do much research trying to find the perfect place. He simply slipped in the first place that seemed to be calling his name, and called it a night.

Often times it meant he found himself at small, local bars, chatting it up with a bartender before he whisked himself away into the night, pressing only a small smile into the musty air as a memento for the souls he’d touched. Other times it meant he ended up at clubs, his memories quickly hazy as he took in whatever was handed to him in a futile chase for a good time. Rarely, it meant he found himself in a restaurant, a charming place with hole-in-the-wall appeal, a place that, for a few fleeting moments, always felt like home. He kept a small record of the places he’d been, keeping them close to his heart.

Of course, though, it didn’t take long for this lackadaisical style of doing things to lead him to some rather unique places. The neon blinking in his watering eyes, he’d make it all the way inside before he’d realize where he was. The slick velvet crushed underneath his Chelsea boots, the dark walls almost dripping with sweat and stains of mysterious origins—it didn’t take a detective to realize that he’d entered a strip club.

The first time Harry realized he’d entered that sort of establishment, he turned on his heel and walked right back out into the biting winter night, unable to stomach what he considered to be that level of human degradation. His mother raised him better than that; he couldn’t stand to see the sorrow-faced women, with their misty, dead eyes scanning the thinning crowds, desperately searching for a way out of that place. When he got back to his hotel, he looked up the name of the club and sent an anonymous donation for all the girls who worked there before he laid up on his bed and cried.

And yet, he couldn’t quite keep the image out of his mind.

As he danced on stage, crowds of women and men crawling his way, the idea of, for once, his face simply being one of them, appealed to him in a way he didn’t initially understand. A strip club, of all things, epitomizing the height his desire simply didn’t seem to fit in with the person he thought he was. Harry was a person who respected women, who cherished them, who supported them in whoever they were and encouraged them to reach their goals. He wasn’t the kind of person to degrade them in that way, to allow his eyes to take them in in a way they didn’t explicitly allow. In short, it felt dirty.

It wasn’t until he allowed himself to understand that his desire was not to attain these women but to attain the anonymity that he was never truly granted that he allowed himself to return.

He did his research diligently, frantically searching for a high end club to attend—not for the money or the status, but in the naïve hope that somehow, it meant the performers were less exploited. It took him three shows before he found one that settled the voice in the back of his mind, a little place called the Golden Palace in Atlanta.

He stepped into the second club hesitantly, red tinted sunglasses donned low on his nose in a haphazard effort to hide his face. He nodded to the bartender, ordering a house drink who’s name he couldn’t remember now if he tried before settling in to a creaking yellow wooden chair in the back of the room.

His hand was shaking as the first performer stepped out onto the stage; her body, tanned and slim, was covered in a pink bra set, clear heels higher than heaven clicking on the black plywood floor.

Her hips swayed to the beat, hands sliding up and down the glinting metal pole, her eyes scanning the crowd, searching for clearly the highest earner. When her eyes landed on Harry, they almost seemed to glow. 

She didn’t tear her eyes from him once, stopping her dance only to carefully gather the bills that accumulated at her feet from the few men sitting closer to the front. She dipped and bowed gracefully, and yet, it was so clearly erotic that it pinched Harry’s heart, encasing him in what could only feel like a greasy soul. He felt slimy just watching her, and yet, her eyes locked on his meant he couldn’t pull away.

When she finally finished her dance, she wasted no time in slipping down from the stage, almost gliding across the floor, displacing the haze that hung in the air before sliding into the chair next to his.

“I saw you watching me,” she crooned, her voice a whisper almost too low to ear, her hands propping her face up as she leaned her elbows into the table.

“Y-Yeah, I saw you watching me, too.” The burning in Harry’s soul got worse as he spoke to her, the nastiness climbing higher and higher up his throat.

“Did you like what you saw?”

Harry gulped, struggling not to stutter. “Of course, I mean, you’re beautiful—it’d be hard not to.”

“Thank you, handsome. My name’s Bambi—what’s yours?”

Too uncomfortable to lie, desperate to feel something real in this conversation that felt like nothing more than a sales pitch, he confessed. “Harry. Harry Styles.”

Bambi’s eyes widened, her dark eyebrows shooting up her face in surprise. “Really?”

Knowing the shit he’d gotten himself into, surprisingly, he couldn’t seem to care less. He wanted to desperately connect with this woman on a real level, not on the superficial erotic one they’d been forced into, and it felt like the only way to do that was to gauge if she was a fan. He didn’t know how else to tell her that he’d much rather they’d met when she had more clothes on, when the smile on her face wasn’t a smirk, that he wanted to know her favorite color, not her favorite dance move, that he wanted to know the real her and appreciate who she was as a person, not the persona she’d concocted to become his favorite person for the night.

Unable to communicate himself better, he simply nodded.

Her mouth gaped, and, almost unconsciously, she leaned forward even more, allowing her hand to slide off the table and grip onto his thigh, her nails just slightly pressing onto his skin beneath his jeans.

“You know,” she crooned, eyes hungry with desire, “I can show you a really good time, if you’re interested. I don’t mean to brag, but I’m one of the best girls here, and I’d be more than happy to prove it to you if you don’t believe me.”  
Harry found himself stuttering. He realized that he hadn’t taken more than a sip of his drink, and yet, half of it had somehow found itself all over his table from the shaking of his hand. The liquor glinted in the orange neon lights, scattering it, tossing it into his eyes and nearly blinding him with the sharpness. His eyes began to water, and, unsure if it was from the light or from the emotion building up inside him, he jumped to his feet.

Bambi looked startled, hands clawing on the table, looking almost terrified that he was leaving. “I’m so sorry,” he gasped, feeling as though he couldn’t breathe. “I—I can’t be here. I have to go. I’m so sorry—I hope you understand.” Digging in his pocket, he revealed his wallet, tossing a wad of bills onto the table before turning on his heel to leave.  
Feet gliding on the floor, he gasped as he tried his best to maintain his composure. But, as he turned to leave, he felt his heart panged for the woman he’d met, wondering if she truly wanted to know him, if she was just a curious fan, if Bambi really was her real name.

When he turned around to glance at her once last time, hoping for just one glimpse of a human connection, her eyes were turned downcast, nearly gleeful as she counted the money he’d given her.

Harry didn’t try to say goodbye after that—he left without another word, calling for a cab before returning to his hotel, one more night cut short once again.

When he laid on his bed, he called the Golden Palace, and made sure another donation found its way to the dancer named Bambi in his name, just to make sure she was well off, praying to God that somehow, she knew it was for the true her.

And yet, after all this, he still couldn’t shake the draw the neon lights had on his soul.


	2. 17 Black -- Chapter 2

The next few shows he played, Harry was distracted and he knew it. He felt bad for the fans-they'd paid hundreds of dollars, showed up in all their garb, prepared to have a life-changing experience, and were greeted with a man who was distracted at best.

He couldn't help it-every time he closed his eyes, Bambi's desperate face flashed across his mind.

And so did the subtle crush of the velvet carpet. And the flashing neon light. And the creak of the wooden chair. And the darkness, of course, the sweet, sweet darkness he craved to dance across his face. The anonymity of it all. The facade, the dance, the show.

He eventually admitted to himself that he wanted to go back.

Briefly, Harry considered flying back to Atlanta, slipping in the doors in between his tour dates, apologizing to Bambi and trying to find the fire behind her eyes that he was sure was there. But, he couldn't toy with that idea for very long. Sneaking back to Atlanta would be hard to hide, especially with paparazzi and his fans, let alone trying to somehow sneak into a strip club again. It was hard enough the first time-he couldn't risk doing it again.

So, back to the drawing board he went. He scoured reviews online, seeking through seedy websites and forum posts, desperate for a place to give him any hint of the spark he'd hidden deep inside. He tried San Francisco, Seattle, Portland, nearly every place on the West coast he visited.

And then, he reached LA.

His surrogate mother, he felt as though this city raised him into the man he'd become. Of course, he grew up in Holmes Chapel, and he owed his childhood to that place, but he found his manhood in Los Angeles. And, truth be told, when he was honest with himself, he wouldn't have it any other way. The city had its downsides-major downsides-but, at its core, it was a place for dreamers. And Harry considered himself one of them.

And, just like anything else, there was a dark side to dreams.

Plunging deep into the seedy underbelly of LA, taking advantage of the brief week-long break he'd scheduled in his tour to rest in his real bed again, he tore through reviews like a mad-man. His search had consumed him, his desire for something more, something different, engulfed him, and he didn't even quite know why. He just knew he had to do something about it. He just needed to feel alive again.

So, when he found a small club named 17 Black, for almost no reason at all, something clicked in his brain.

He didn't do any more research on the club; all he knew was that it was close, it was private, and it was very, very expensive. The evening before his show, he pulled up the address, and, without a second thought, nearly flew down the street in his white Mercedes Benz, chasing the brief flutter of feeling in his chest.

When he arrived at the club, he grumbled, staring down at his glaring screen in the dim moonlight, wondering if he'd gotten the address right. It didn't look like a high end club at all-in fact, it looked like a dump. It was a large brick building, with the parking lot wrapping from the left side around the back, with the front half covered in a slick black marble, the door looking very out of place-dark cherry double doors, almost vintage. Above the door hung the large head of a stag, with glistening gray neon glaring above it, showing off the name of the club-17 Black. Other than that, the front of the club gave nothing else up about its insides.

Feeling hesitant, stilling his shaking hand, he grabbed the handle and yanked it open, slowly slipping inside.

Once again, he was overwhelmed with how different and yet how similar this club seemed to the others. The floor was wooden rather than carpeted, with a few steps leading down into the large viewing area, filled with sets of tables and chairs, lit only with small flickering candles made of antlers atop them. The large black Proscenium stage was nothing new-it was even made of the same plywood he'd seen before. Snaking around the right side of the viewing area was the large bar, lit with the cool neon lights that wrapped around the bottom and top of the bar. To the left of the viewing area looked what was almost a runway, the dark crushed velvet carpet making an appearance once more, leading around to a small ramp that connected to the stage, with doors leading off from it. Harry briefly wondered about the women he'd find inside, about what women had resigned their lives to this place.

Feeling self-conscious once more, he tugged at the hem of his black button-down before striding quickly into the darkness.

Descending into the large viewing area, he was surprised to be greeted by a waiter. His eyebrows briefly raised as he let his eyes drag down Harry's body, making him feel even more self-conscious, but he quickly snapped out of it, introducing himself.

"Hi, sir," he said, speaking cooly, "Just one?"

Harry nodded, looking uncomfortable, but the man didn't seem to mind. With a sweeping gesture, he beckoned Harry to follow him to his table.

Of course, he sat him dead center, the room almost empty save for a few stragglers resting in the shadows. Harry paid them no mind, hoping they'd give him the same courtesy.

As he settled into his seat, the waiter carefully placed a menu beside him on the table. "My name is Xander," he said with a small bow. "If you find yourself wanting anything to eat, there's a small button in between the antlers you can press that will call me over. Or, if you like, you can go up to the bar upstairs and order yourself. One rule I must specify-we don't allow our patrons to touch the dancers here. If you find yourself wanting to tip a dancer, you can either place them in the general tip jar behind the antlers on your table, or place them into the dancers individual jars up at the bar. Each one will be introduced before they perform, and you're free to enjoy at your leisure. Some will come down and mingle after the show, and we do have private rooms that they use at their comfort."

Harry felt like his head was swimming with all the information he'd been given, and, once again, he found himself wondering if this was a bad idea. Glancing up at Xander, he swallowed, unsure of himself, wondering what the hell he was even doing there.

"Do you have any questions?"

Harry felt as though he might puke. He needed a drink to settle his racing thoughts, or he'd never find his bliss.

"Could I have a scotch?"

"Certainly. I'll bring it to you. Enjoy the show, sir."

As soon as he left, Harry found himself relaxing somewhat, leaning into the muffled rock music filling the club in between sets. Despite where he was, 17 Black didn't seem as seedy as the rest, and, despite his discomfort, he didn't hate it as much as last time.

When the lights began to dim, he barely noticed Xander slip the drink next to him as he settled into the chair to watch.

"Welcome to 17 Black," a muffled voice rang out into the small area, filling it with static, "Please join us in welcoming our first performer of the night onto our stage: the fabulous Sammy!"

When the first performer stepped out on stage to dance, Harry felt his stomach bottom out. This wasn't just any old strip club he'd walked into-this was a gay strip club, and Sammy was a man.

Harry's thoughts began to race, unsure of himself: he'd always been unsure of his sexuality, finding himself attracted to less people and more personalities since day one. But, before he could really figure anything out about himself, he was whisked into One Direction, the foursome of lads breaking the world as international superstars, leaving Harry with no time to explore who he felt like he was inside. He'd had a brief "thing," if you could call it that with Niall, but it was more of a bromance than anything else, nothing passing a briefly intense friendship. Besides-the boys of his band had made it very clear to him over the years that they were straight, or, at the very least, uninterested in trying anything else, and Harry felt obliged to carry that image out with them, unwilling to be the odd one out and risk toppling their image in the rampantly homophobic media for something that may not even be who he really was.

When he finally went solo, he'd relaxed on his self-imposed rules a bit, allowing himself to flirt with whoever passed his gaze, eager to feed the growing animal inside him. And yet, he still never allowed himself the real chance to feel, the real chance to see.

And now, there he was: face to face with the desires he'd tried to run from for so long. And they were powerful. And they were blatant. And they were there.

He tried to get to his feet to run, but stumbled over his shaking knees, knocking his newly called drink to the ground.

"Shit!" He cursed, loudly filling the room with his words before he winced, realizing what he'd done. "Sorry," he said, turning his head to the dancing man, embarrassed that he'd drawn attention away from his set, away from what was likely his livelihood.

Sammy caught his eye, and, in the smoothest way Harry had ever seen, he winked.

Harry felt like burying his head in his hands, felt like bolting out the door once more and never going back, and yet, something in his eyes was drawing him in. Uncomfortably, the denim around his pants began to tighten, and he felt his face flush red with embarrassment.

"God," he muttered, crouching down to his broken glass, praying to God no one sees him on his hands and knees in a strip club of all places. That'd be just what he needed-the presses would go wild with that one, and he knew it.

"Need any help?" A gentle hand on his back interrupted his muttering, and he nearly jumped, startled by the voice. It was Xander, again-ever the helper.

"Um, yes, please. I'm sorry-I must've accidentally knocked it off the table when I wasn't paying attention." Harry was stuttering, barely able to keep his thoughts stable.

"No worries," Xander crooned, "It happens all the time. You'd be surprised." Crouching down beside Harry to help him, Harry couldn't help but notice how smooth his words all were, how they tied all together like a rushing river. It made him feel like he was drowning.

Time passed in a blur as Harry struggled to think straight-think not straight?-God, he couldn't even listen to himself, much less understand his feelings. Here he was, picking glass off a stained hardwood floor, a glass he'd broken much less, and all he could think about was his damn sexuality and the growing tension in his jeans.

So much for freedom. So much for an escape.

"There," Xander said, placing the last of the glass shards into a small handkerchief he held in his hands, "That should do it. I'll go take care of these-would you like another? I'll comp it to you, no extra charge."

Harry felt his voice shaking, his body aching, and yet, he found himself nodding up at this waiter, the one who held his dark secret. With a nod, he whisked away into the darkness, leaving him to scramble to his feet on his own. Vaguely aware of the announcers voice introducing another artist, he got back into his chair, hitting his head on the underside of the wood.

"Fuck," he muttered, his hand going to the back of his head, clutching at his curls as he struggled to steady his vision, wishing that it was from his drink and not from pure idiocy that it'd happened.

By the time he'd steadied himself, Xander had already brought him another scotch, leaving him to sip on his drink before glancing up to the stage once again. He looked up, and his jaw dropped.

There he was, in all his glory--the most beautiful boy Harry had ever seen. His hand stopped shaking for the first time all night, and he felt as though his surroundings were slipping away, his memories dripping down the wall alongside the peeling paint, as he took in the breathtaking sight before him. The boy's eyes scanned the crowd before landing right on Harry, holding his gaze for a moment longer than what seemed normal before, with a small smirk, he began to dance. And, for once, Harry didn't seem to mind.


	3. Can't Help Falling in Love -- Chapter 3

Harry had never been more frozen in place than he had been in that moment. His body felt foreign, unknown—as though he was watching the boy from outside of himself. He felt like a match gripped just moments from slipping into water; this boy had saved him from a fate he didn't even notice was coming.

He watched with awe as the boy gripped onto the pole, his small posture meaning nothing when faced with his large presence. He seemed to fill up the whole entire room.

Wishing to God he'd caught his name over the loudspeaker, he allowed his eyes to take in what he'd wanted all along, his body to feel the feelings it had always wanted to feel, his persona to slip off into the night and give him the anonymity he'd ever wanted. As the boy began his set, Harry felt as though he was finally ending his. He was no longer Harry Styles—just a man feeding his hungry soul.

The boy moved with more grace than Harry thought possible for someone so young, someone surely more untrained. He looked graceful, every feature soft and yet slicing at the same time. He was like wine to Harry, or maybe a rose—someone so sweet, so soft, and yet so sharp, so sure.

His body flowed like a river, his hands dragging down the harsh metal pole like it was silk. The music thumped hard behind him but it didn't seem to drown him out, only enhance him as he pranced and slid, dived and bowed, working for every cent he made.

As that thought crossed his mind, it seemed to jolt Harry back into the reality he was in. He became aware of his body again, aware of how his limbs seemed so foreign when they bent, aware of how dizzied his mind felt, aware of how tight his jeans were in his crotch. And how heavy his wallet felt in his pocket. Looking up at the boy, he wanted nothing more than to give him everything he had.

Scrambling, he clutched at his pocket, removing his wallet as though he was in a trance, flipping through the folders without tearing his eyes from the boy for a moment. Desperately, he wanted him to see him, to be seen, but the boy was so entranced in his dance that Harry doubted he could see beyond the stage at all.

For a moment, he stepped forward, desperate to hand him the money, desperate to make him look off the stage and into his eyes, before he once again was uncomfortably aware of his reality. This was not a lawless place, this was not a dream strumming at the chords at the back of his mind—he had rules to follow if he wanted to thank him.

Swallowing hard, struggling to think clearly, he vaguely remembered that Xander had mentioned tip jars at the bar back up the stairs. Surely someone had to know the dancer's name there?

Fighting the urge to blow a kiss to the stage, fall on his knees for a boy he never knew, he took in his rocking and rolling body with one more hungry glance before dashing up the stairs to the bar.

Lights were more muted, more subtle up here, as opposed to the flashing rainbow of lights shining down below, leaving Harry to blink, struggling to see for a moment. When he came to, he noticed the bartender leaning over the bar, smirking up at him.

"Dazzled?" he purred.

Harry was too shocked to even reply, barely managing a nod as his thoughts ran rampant.

The bartender smiled, lolling his head before glancing back down to the stage. "Can't say I blame you. He's quite a cutie—one of the newbies, I think."

"What's his name?"

The bartender looked up, seemingly surprised by his low voice. "Louis," he said before allowing a sultry look to overtake his face, "But don't you want to know mine?"

This was too much, this was all too much. Harry's mind was going at a mile a minute and he had no idea how to make it stop. Barely hearing himself, he mumbled an order to the flirty bartender to give the tip money to Louis—only Louis—before dashing towards the small bathroom sign beyond the bar.

Stomach twisted in dread, he slammed open the door with his shoulder, slipping on the slick tile floor before stumbling into the handicapped stall, crumbling to his knees as he dry heaved whatever few sips of drink he'd had a few hours before into the bowl. His throat burned, his stomach roared, but most of all, his mind was enflamed, engulfed with only one word prevailing despite the flames—Louis.

What was wrong with him? Here he was, knelt over a toilet in a strip club bathroom, close to dying because of the hips of a man. A woman hadn't made him feel this sick, not in a long time, maybe not ever, and he barely knew his man's name and he'd already brought him to his knees.

He was being ridiculous, he knew, but he felt so drunk on the idea that he almost didn't seem to care. But slowly, as the cold porcelain seeped through to touch his skin, it seemed to soothe his soul, and became, slowly, aware of his surroundings as he plummeted back down to earth.

The bathroom, thank God, was empty, but was harshly illuminated in a neon pink glow. Over the speaker, inexplicably, played a muted version of Elvis Presley's "Can't Help Falling in Love." Harry cringed at the irony as he slowly got to his feet, leaving the meteor crater he felt like he'd left in the floor alone as he shouldered opened the unlocked stall door. Gritting his teeth, he found himself wondering if he had he accidentally gone into the ladies' room?

No, he hadn't. As the creaking door swung open to reveal the grimy mirrors, he spotted the urinals on the side, feeling some sort of perverse relief in being comfortable in at least that part of himself. But this other part—this new, unfamiliar, soul-burning part—was so staggering that he almost fell to his knees all over again when he even thought of it.

This was insane. He couldn't live like this—he had a life, a career, a person to be who wasn't this enflamed, enraptured person. He wasn't lovesick nor was he known for it. Nor could he be.

Sighing, he tried to bring himself back from the brink of his carnal desire by checking in with himself. Anytime he found himself stressed, he slowly went through his needs, seeing what he could do that was primal enough to ground him, no matter how small.

Thirst, hunger, sleep, breathe, bathroom—bathroom? He could manage that. All the others seemed too overwhelming for him at that moment, too involved. He wasn't ready to step outside the safety of the cool bathroom, the only place in this bar that he felt marginally more like himself.

Just as he had finished unzipping his pants, steadying himself, beginning to pee, slightly annoyed at Elvis's whiny voice over the speaker, the door behind him sprung open. Harry spun, feeling inexplicably like he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't, only to come face to face with Louis, the beautiful boy, the subject of all his desires.

Harry felt frozen in place, but Louis barely even looked his way, simply sliding into place at the urinal next to his, unzipping his pants as if nothing life moving was going on at all. In fact, he looked nearly asleep, his long, false eyelashes fluttering as though he was fighting it off with every passing moment.

All of a sudden, Harry realized that his body had automatically followed his field of vision , leaving him to be slightly turned towards Louis's perfect body. In the cramped space, he didn't have enough time to notice before he accidentally got some pee on the boy.

Mortified, Harry's voice croaked before he could even think. "Oops," he breathed.

The feeling and the sound of his voice seemed to startle Louis awake. Tearing his eyes from the floor, he raked them up Harry's body, showing no shame before finally landing at his eyes. His were blue—oh so beautifully blue that Harry felt like drowning in them.

Smiling almost ear to ear in a way that Harry could only describe as sexy before cracking open his perfect lips to speak, Harry felt as though his high tenor voice filled the entire room, smothering even Elvis with one simple word: "Hi."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (a/n: can't have harry and louis without oops/hi, now can we?
> 
> i figured i'd break my silence and introduce myself, if only slightly, now that the story is more set up--i'm romanllama, but feel free to call me roman! i've been a writer since i was five, in love with one direction since i was ten, and a member on ao3 since i was eighteen!
> 
> i highly recommend y'all listen to the video posted at the bottom of this note, for at least when haz gets into the bathroom. it's the aesthetic that really inspired this whole book, and honestly where i got the idea from in the first place! along with a freddieismyqueen video snippet i'll probably link later on.
> 
> anyway i hope you guys enjoy--vote & comment to your hearts content if you do. all the love!
> 
> -r )
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wo-EZSab5_4


	4. Chapter 4 -- Someone Like You

Harry felt as though his world was flying apart into a million tiny little pieces. Louis was speaking to him—actually speaking to him—and, to top that off, he was quite literally holding his cock in his hand, and so was Louis. And, he had absolutely no idea how to respond.

Bumbling, Harry managed to spit out a response. “Hey,” he breathed.

Louis seemed to take no notice of Harry’s apparent concern. “Do I know you from somewhere? I feel like I’ve seen your face before.”

“Um,” Harry mumbled, zipping up his pants after he finished, taking his eyes off Louis, “I was in the audience just then. For your, um, performance.”

Louis shook his head, but a slight smile graced his perfect features as he, too, finished up his business. “No, no, as much as I appreciate it, that’s not it. What do you do? Maybe I know you from your work.”

Harry winced. He had hope that, despite the brighter lighting in the bathroom, the pink lights would be enough to drown out his facial features. But, him being who he was, no amount of pink lights in the world were going to drown him out forever. He almost groaned audibly, realizing his brief moments of anonymity were fleeting, but, when he looked into Louis’s eyes, he found his frustrating quickly dissipating, realizing that he wanted Louis to know who he was, wanted Louis to want to know him. And if it took name dropping himself to get there, then God damnit, he was going to do it. Proudly.

“Well, my name is Harry. Harry Styles. If that means anything to you at all. I, uh, make music.” When Louis didn’t respond, he leaned forward slightly, rocking on his heels. “I was in a band, called One—“

Louis abruptly cut him off, looking up at him, eyes wide. “No, I know who you are now, I’m just—well, I’m speechless. What is someone like you doing here? I always thought famous people like you didn’t waste your time in strip clubs—I thought they just called escorts and got on with it. I never thought I’d see someone like you in a place like this.”

Harry shrugged, slowly making his way around Louis to the sinks. “I guess I’m not like everyone else then.”

“No, you’re not,” Louis breathed, almost too quiet for Harry to hear as Louis watched him carefully as he began to wash his hands. Harry could feel his eyes roaming over every inch of his body, making him simultaneously uncomfortable and aroused by the attention. He was used to it—he almost had to be in his profession—and yet, there was something about Louis’s eyes that made him feel downright naughty, almost like a schoolboy who had just been caught with his pants down.

He felt dizzy. Unsure of how to react, he leaned forward, balancing his weight on the porcelain sink as he looked up into the mirror, hoping his reflection would give him some kind of guidance. However, when he caught sight of himself in the mirror, he was caught off guard—he looked almost nothing like himself.

His pupils were blown almost to their peaks, affected both by the low, crappy lighting in the bathroom and the way Louis was looking at him. His hair was tussled into a ragged mess, his cheeks flushed bright pink with every ragged beat his heart made, his lips flushed and tingling from puking in the toilet. He felt mortified—He looked like he’d been freshly fucked and Louis hadn’t even touched him yet.

Clearing his throat, he attempted to drag his eyes away from his haggard reflection, desperate to lose himself in the image he had portrayed. If his body wanted him to look freshly fucked, then he’d better actually get to feel that way too, lest he might explode from anticipation altogether.

“I hope that’s a good thing.”

Louis raised an eyebrow. “What’s a good thing?”

Harry shuffled his feet. “You said I’m not like the rest. I hope that’s a good thing.”  
Louis’s eyebrows shot up in recognition, and Harry couldn’t help but notice how expressive he was. He figured it was from performing on stage, and yet, he didn’t get the impression that his reactions were disingenuous. Quite the opposite, in fact—far from Bambi’s sultry persona, he felt as though Louis was just another person.

Well, an unspeakably hot other person, but, another person, nonetheless.

“No, it really is a good thing,” Louis continued. “It isn’t often you meet people who are—how do I put this delicately—as classy as you in my line of work.”

Harry stifled a laugh, not wanted to insult those who entered strip clubs—hell, he was standing right in their shoes—and yet, couldn’t help but smile at Louis’s words. “I figured as much, all things considered. What kinds of people do you meet?”

Louis shook his head. “You don’t want to know.”

“I do! Or, at the very least, if you won’t tell me that, you ought to at least tell me a little bit about yourself.”

Louis cocked a brown, crossing his arms. “Do I? If anything, you’re the one who owes me one—after all, you did pee on me.”

A blush raced up to Harry’s cheeks, flushing him an even deeper pink than before. Despite the lighting, Louis noticed, and, despite barely knowing Harry at all, he reached up, cupping his flushed cheek with his cool, wet hands.

Harry shivered at the touch but did not pull away. “I suppose you’re right. What do you want to know?”

Louis looked around, keeping his hand on Harry’s cheek for a moment longer than necessary before pulling away. “Whatever you want to tell me, but do you really think a washroom is the best place to have this conversation?”

Harry swallowed the urge to reach out and grab Louis’s hand again, wanting desperately to feel his cool touch on Harry’s flaming skin. Every look, every word, every touch from Louis was like a wildfire, and, yet, inexplicably, he was the only one who would tame it. “Where else would we speak?”

These words seemed to pull Louis out of whatever flirty haze he had put himself in. Glancing down at his wrist, he revealed a small watch with a tattered black leather band. “Well, you can come with me to my changing room. I have another set in about twenty minutes, but if you have time to spare, I’d be more than happy to spend it with you.” He looked up at Harry with the end of his words, and, as though the mere sight of him cheered him up, he broke into a large grin before reaching out to touch his shoulder. “Rockstar.”

Harry became convinced that the room was spinning around him and that it’d never stop. “I’d like that,” he said, voice nearly cracking under the pounding pressure from his heart. 

Louis grinned once more, slowly dragging his hand down Harry’s arm, squeezing his muscles that were flexed under his shirt before linking his arm with his. “Well, then let’s get out of this washroom and on it, yeah?”

Trying to hide his grin and failing miserably, Harry allowed Louis to lead him out of the bathroom.

Despite his smaller stature, Louis walked quite quickly, matching Harry’s longer strides almost perfectly so that they walked nearly in sync. As they exited the bathroom, Harry was very grateful for Louis’s arm in his, his vision not adapting quite as well to the low violet light.

Louis, however, knew every step like the back of his hand, and led Harry quickly past the bar where the bartender he’d spoke to before knelt over the glass counter, smirking at the pair as they strolled past. 

The smaller boy greeted his coworker as they passed by. “Good night, Julian?” He asked.

Julian nodded, and Harry, not as stressed as he once was, finally got a better look at him. His hair was short and curled into small blonde ringlets, and his eyes were so bright blue that it was almost painful for Harry’s dizzied mind to look at. In another life, a life where Louis did not exist so blatantly and so perfectly before him, Harry might have found his petite, fit body attractive, but the thrill, the pull of gravity, was only there, could only be there, with Louis.

And, in following with this pull, just as quickly as they’d approached Julian, they were away again.

Louis led Harry around the horseshoe that wrapped around the stage, before reaching the left side, slipping up against the door closest to the wall. He disentangled himself from Harry, making Harry swallow an involuntary whine, before wrapping gently on the creaking wood.

“Troy? Are you still in there?” Pressing his ear up against the wood, he waited for an answer. “Troy!”

After a moment, satisfied by the silence, Louis opened the door.

As he led them into the small changing room, he explained his hesitance. “Technically, we aren’t supposed to have guests in here, but no one really follows that rule anyway, unless our roommate is in here too. It’s sorta like university, eh?”

Harry nodded, not wanting to let on that he hadn’t been to university, that he never really finished school in the first place—his band had taken off before he’d even had the chance to try.

Louis seemed oblivious to his hesitancy, oblivious to any inkling of discomfort that pooled out of Harry. In fact, he seemed so oblivious that Harry could not believe that it was anything but purposeful—he exuded confidence so strongly that it smothered any insecurity in the room. It was dizzying, but intoxicating.

“So, what’d you think?” Louis asked.

Harry startled. “Of what? The room?”

“Yeah, the room. I decorated it myself, and I’m actually quite proud of it. What do you think?”

As soon as Louis mentioned it, it was like the whole room came to life. Tearing his eyes from Louis’s small body, he took in the small room as deeply as he could.

Christmas lights wrapped around all four walls, glowing a dim orange color against the deep red walls. A few velvet chairs scattered themselves around the wall closest to the door—even a couch made an appearance—but they were all shoved to the side, almost completely out of the way. A pattered oriental rug took up most of the floor of the space, leaving a wide open area, save only for a full body mirror, in the center of the room. In the corner, a bamboo divider stood, with a floor lamp shining brightly behind it. On the far left side sat a makeup table, covered in so many products that Harry couldn’t identify them all if he tried. And, throughout the room, were piles and piles of clothes.

Feeling a bit cheeky, Harry grinned. “It’s a bit messy,” he began, allowing his voice to trail off.

Louis rolled his eyes. “You sound like my mum.”

“Well then I’m sure your mum is a very neat, nice person.”

Louis sighed before digging through a pile of shoeboxes that lined the right wall. “Yeah, she was.”

His gut twisted sharply, his grin falling quickly off his face. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t—“

Shaking his head, Louis kept his body turned from him as he pulled out a tall pair of black heeled boots. “Don’t worry about it. It happens a lot more than you’d might think. I’m used to it.”

Feeling uncomfortable, his cheeky attitude lost, Harry mumbled out a reply. “I like the room, though, I really do. It’s very—red.”

Louis looked straight at him then, holding back a laugh. “You like it that much, and all you can say about it is it’s red?”

A blush once again flushed Harry’s cheeks, but it was drowned out by Louis’ laugh, high and clear, filling the room and filling Harry’s heart. “You do talk some shit, don’t you, Styles?”

“I try my best.”

Shaking his head, Louis strode into the center of the room. “I see that.”

As Harry opened his mouth to speak again, willing to do anything to fill the room with Louis’s laughter again, he was all of a sudden stunned into silence when Louis pulled his shirt off. He knew—he should have known—that Louis would change in front of him. He was used to declothing himself in front of strangers, and, besides that, he told Harry directly this was his dressing room. He’d even already seen him undress—it was his whole job. And yet, Harry felt his breath catch in his throat as he gazed at Louis’s tattoed, chiseled body.

Louis quickly caught him staring, and smirked, tossing his black shirt across the room. “Like what you see, lover boy?”

For what felt like the tenth time that night, Harry blushed. He felt like that was all he could do anymore when confronted with such a beautiful, breathtaking man.

Louis noticed him, and, after hesitating for a second, slowly began to slip across the room to Harry. His feet seemed to glide across the carpet, his smirk growing as he approached. “Just can’t take your eyes off me, hm? You know, I charge most people a price for staring.”

Harry gulped, realizing very quickly how small this room was, how close Louis was and how he showed no signs of stopping. Unintentionally, Harry’s feet began to stumble backwards, intimidated by the smaller man’s approach, but this didn’t even seem to faze Louis, who walked so quickly that he forced Harry up against the wall.

Chest heaving, heart pounding, body begging for more contact, Harry looked down at Louis, finally meeting his gaze. Louis’s pupils were blown out too, only showing the rims of his bright blue eyes. He looked scandalous, nude body pressed against Harry’s clothed one, hot breath on his neck as he whispered against his ear.

“But, for you,” he breathed, snaking a hand around Harry’s neck, “I might just make an exception.”

His jeans now uncomfortably tight, his body a forest fire that showed no sign of stopping, Harry felt his brain finally click into his body again as he leaned down, gripped Louis’s face with both of his hands, and kissed him roughly on his mouth.


	5. Flowers Blooming at Your Touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bit of a filler chapter, but alas, school started for me, so i'll be a bit more sporadic with updates! i'm gonna try my best to keep up with this fic, though, because i'm really enjoying writing it so far, and i hope y'all are enjoying reading it as well.

At first, all Harry could do was stand frozen to the spot. Louis’s lips crashed hard and fast against his, a torrential downpour of emotions and bliss and everything Harry had always wanted, making the flowers deep in the recesses of his mind finally begin to bloom.

And then, just like that, he found himself within his body and began to move.

Harry felt as though his whole world was blossoming beneath his fingertips. His hands dragged up and down Louis’s body, flowing like a river, wanting nothing more than to get to the source of the heat beneath his skin, to jump his bones, in the most intimate way possible.

Their bodies responding to one another as though they were puzzle pieces; Louis pushed as Harry pulled, his body responding to him in just the right way, holding him just the right way, and touching him just the right way, and as Louis’s hands glided down his chest to grip his hips, to try and dip lower, Harry was suddenly struck with the realization that he had never been touched this way before, that he might not make it much farther until—

And, just like that, there was a knock at the door.

“Lou!” A deep, male voice boomed through the weary wood, loudly in Harry’s ear. “Why’s the door lock?”

Louis jumped back from Harry almost immediately, and if Harry had had a little less pride he would have whined, his body still screaming for his touch. But the smaller man almost didn’t seem to notice, didn’t even seem to care, simply tapping Harry on the shoulder for him to step aside to let the other man into the room.

Until, of course, just as his hand slid across to grab the doorknob, he looked directly into Harry’s eyes and winked.

Harry could feel the relief so palpable throughout his body that he didn’t even take the time to notice the other man entering the room until he was already taking up the mirror in the center.

Louis noticed him not noticing and smirked, crossing the room to meet the man in the middle. “Harry, this is Troy. Troy, Harry.”

Harry gulped and nodded a hello, trying desperately to avoid eye contact with Troy, who was now stripped almost nude as he changed costumes.

Troy didn’t seem to notice nor care for Harry’s presence much; instead, he immediately turned to face Louis. “You go on after Chris, right, love?”

Love? Harry felt his stomach bottom out with an emotion he couldn’t identify—jealousy? desire? lust? —as he heard the word drip out of Troy’s mouth. He felt like the world was once again spiraling out from underneath him, his chest heaving waves down to the ocean beneath his feet, leaving him to lose something he hadn’t even realized he’d had until it was slipping so swiftly out of his fingers.

“Yeah,” Louis breathed, gazing up at Troy for what Harry felt to be a second too long before turning back to Harry and smiling. “We work together,” Louis said, as though that was any explanation, any consolation, to him.

“Right,” Harry sighed, struggling to maintain his composure as he settled, nearly slid, into the couch low on the floor. “Of course I knew that.”

“Just making sure, love.”

Troy looked nearly as surprised as Harry felt at the word. As Troy’s eyebrow raised in suspicion, so too did Harry’s hopes as he watched Louis’s gaze quickly flit from Harry’s crumbled body to Troy’s neatly composed one.

Louis, ever so nonchalant, rolled his eyes. “Relax,” he assured Troy. “He’s a good one—I can tell.”

Harry’s mind boggled even more at that comment, but, before he had time to respond, time to decide if that comment was a compliment or something he needed to defend himself from, Troy whisked himself towards the door.

“Sure,” he called over his shoulder as he left, almost as quickly as he’d came. “That’s what they all say.”

And, with that, the spindly wooden door slammed shut behind him.

Louis shrugged, looking all together unbothered by the interaction, but Harry, as he had many times that night, felt as though his world was crumbling once again. He had flung himself into a world he didn’t understand and was wondering if it was possible to feel regret over something that had barely begun.

And, just as Harry began to contemplate getting to his feet and excusing himself, Louis crossed the room, and, in one fluid motion, climbed into his lap and kissed him again.

All thoughts of leaving left Harry’s mind in that instant, pulled out of his head by Louis’s hands in his long curls, every worry and regret bitten out from Harry’s mouth before it even had the chance to form. He knew in that moment that any disaster, any outrage, any despair and confusion would be worth it, if only it meant to feel like this every once in a while.

Just as Harry began to push himself further, to swallow every anxiety whole and bury it in Louis’s body, he once again pulled back. This time, Harry fought, if only slightly, gripping his hands tightly on Louis’s thighs, noticing almost absentmindedly that his whole hand nearly covered the entirety of his leg.

Louis sighed. “As much as I’d like to stay, love, I do have a job, you know. One that I would much rather do for only you, but I have a commitment to the performance. It’s an art, you understand?”

He did, of course he did, but a whispered “Stay,” buried itself deep in Harry’s throat, threatening to spill over if he even opened his mouth. 

Louis seemed to notice his hesitancy, and, quietly, pressed a soft, chaste kiss to the base of Harry’s neck. “Later,” he breathed as he pulled away, sending Harry’s heart fluttering in his chest.

“Get drinks with me after?” Louis asked as he got to his feet, and, although it was phrased as a question, Harry could hear the insurgence, almost the desperation, clear in his voice. Despite Louis’s nonchalant persona, some part of him realized—hoped?—that Louis felt the same way he did, at least a little bit.

Desperate to chase the high, to find out for sure how Louis felt, he nodded his agreement. “Of course I’ll stay.”

The grin that broke through Louis’s face was like staring directly at the sun on a summer’s day; his face squished up perfectly, framing his eyes into small half-moons that Harry couldn’t have looked away from if he had tried. “Excellent,” he said, and even his voice couldn’t hide the slight tremble of excitement. “I had hoped you would say yes—otherwise, we might have had to have a bit of a conversation, yeah? Now, come on, get up, you can go waste time with Julian at the bar while I swing my hips around a little bit.”

Harry felt his mouth go dry at the thought of watching Louis again. “But I wanted to watch you dance.”

Louis looked startled, almost pleased, but played it off well. “Eh, you’re not missing much, trust me. I’ve only just started working here recently—there’s guy’s here who have been doing this for years.”

Harry couldn’t have cared less about any other guy. “I want to see you, though.”

As Louis opened the door, Harry would’ve sworn if not for the light that he saw the hint of a blush crawl up Louis’s cheeks. “Well,” he said as he led them out into the main room, “If you insist, there’s a certain seat at the bar where you get a fantastic view of the stage. Just tell Julian I sent you and what for and he’ll set you up, yeah?”

Harry nodded. “Sounds good.”

With one last look at Harry, brushing his knuckles over Harry’s hand, he smiled. “See you around.”

And, with one last wink, he disappeared into the neon twilight.


	6. Medicine

Harry didn’t really recall traveling across the club; he vaguely seemed to be floating, his body slowly plumetting closer and closer to Earth as he came down from his orbit, settling him into the nearest barstool.

Julian raised an eyebrow at his starstruck schlump. “Did he fuck you that hard?”

That startled Harry back into reality, a deep red blush racing up his face. “What?”

Julian repeated himself, not caring to hide his smirk as he followed Harry’s gaze to the curtain at the side of the stage.

“No, no—we didn’t—he didn’t—“

“Hey, man, don’t worry about protecting yourself to me,” Julian said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “It happens all the time.”

Harry felt as though he had, once again, had a heavy weight dropped into the pit of his stomach. He struggled to speak through the sudden dryness of his throat, sputtering out: “Louis has men come around often?”

“Oh!” Julian said, his eyebrows raising as he watched Harry stutter. “No, no, not really. I was speaking more in general. If I’m being honest, I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him take someone home. He’s new here, though, so he might’ve elsewhere. Why?”  
Harry ignored his question. With a twist in his stomach and a slight release of the pressure on his shoulders, Harry hoped to God that Louis hadn’t done this a lot. He found himself selfishly wanting Louis to himself, not wanting to share him with whoever else had come through the cherry doors of the bar.

The reminder of the door made Harry lick his lips, craving something to take the edge off his personality. He was so filled with anxiety he felt as though he couldn’t breathe, and he needed some fire in his throat to clear it up.

“Do you have Kirsch here?”

The bartender leaned up from the bar, turning to his stack of shining bottles behind him. “Um,” he muttered as he scanned the lines. “I think so? Why, what do you want?”

“Do you know how to make a rose?”

Julian hid a grin as his hands wrapped around the neck of a cool, nearly full bottle. “Remind me.”

Harry’s hand hit the back of his throat, embarrassed that he knew exactly what went into the cocktail, but not embarrassed enough that he wouldn’t admit it. “It’s got vermouth, kirsch, and some fruit syrup. Cherry would be nice, if you have any.”

“A man of substance,” Julian crooned as he began to mix the drink into a small cocktail glass, “And, apparently, cherry flavoring.”

Harry grinned, his dimples showing and smile lopsided as he casually waited for Julian to finish mixing his drink. The drinks fizzed and bubbled as he shook them together, and, for once that night, Harry found his mind wandering from Louis something simpler.

That is, until the lights dimmed, and Louis stepped out onto the stage once more.

Though he was farther away than he had been before, Louis’s slender, curved body was unmistakable. He walked with a certain kind of swagger, knowing all eyes, knowing Harry’s eyes, were on him, and, with a quickly tossed glance and a wink up toward’s his seat at the bar, he gripped the pole and began to dance.

And he was dancing to one of Harry’s songs.

Harry felt his stomach twist and lurch as he recognized the thundering bass of Medicine, the song he’d conspicuously left absent from his first album, and only recently released as a single due to the high demand from fans, a teaser for his second album. One of the few times Harry had allowed himself to speak about those desires that plagued the inside of his soul, it was no secret what the song was really about.

And yet, seeing it acted out, on a stage, with a man that Harry would love nothing more than to perform these acts with, left him almost entirely breathless.

Louis’s hands roped up and down the pole, knuckles nearly white from how tight he was gripping, body rolling and lolling up and down, muscles tensing sharply against the thin black satin fabric he was adorned with. His thighs tightened and spread to the tune of the beat, his head bobbing obscenely to every strum of the guitar. 

When the chorus finally filled the room, he looked up to Harry, catching his tongue in his teeth as his lips spread into a wicked grin, his smile filling the entire room.

Harry thought he might explode.

His dick, apparently, thought the same, twitching uncomfortably in his pants as he struggled to control his breathing. Louis’s had the same problem, but, of course, he used it to his advantage, planning his set around it rather than hiding it like Harry had to do.

He barely noticed that the drink had made its way into his hand until it was making its way down his throat, the burn in his mouth barely distracting him from the other, more overpowering burn.

“God,” Harry breathed to himself as he watched Louis prance and preen. Men hooted and hollered beneath him, but Harry tuned them out, his whole body and soul almost completely attuned into Louis. He brought the song’s spirit to life, his plump, lush lips mouthing the words to the song like he’d heard it a thousand times before.

Had he heard it before? Surely he had, he knew the words as well as Harry himself did. Harry almost broke out into a cold sweat, hands shaking, dick twitching in his pants as he thought of Louis hearing the song for the first time, headphones in his ears, laying in his dark bedroom, hips rolling to the beat, hand traveling lazily down his body to slip his hand into his pants to the sound of Harry’s seductive voice…

“Jesus Christ,” Harry muttered, downing the rest of his drink, just as Julian spoke.

“Another?”

“Please,” Harry croaked out, not turning his eyes from Louis for one second. Julian laughed softly behind him, turning to mix his drink.

Harry could not believe how smoothly Louis’s body moved. His muscles were like the well-rosined strings of a violin, tensing and stretching to the music, body under his complete control. When he bent, it was like he took the whole world with him; when he rose, it was like he brought it back to life. As Louis wrapped his body around the pole and slowly leaned his head towards the ground, thrusting his hips obscenely forward with every inch he lowered, Harry found himself wishing on every lucky star he’d ever seen that he could one day too be the pole for Louis instead.

He couldn’t stop thinking about that idea; the second he let it slip it was like the floodgates in his mind exploded, filth flooding forward. Louis’s hands grazing his body, gripping his skin, long fingers exploring him, touching him, jerking him, the pleasure rising, rising, rising in his throat, Louis’s obscene hips slamming into him as he begged for as much as he could take until he gave himself completely over to him. It was all he had ever wanted.

And, as the jolt of a cool drink slipping into his fingers, he realized he quickly had to stop wanting it, at least, for a few moments, unless he wanted to come in his pants. God, Louis was making him feel like a teenager all over again and he could barely control himself.

When the song finally ended, Louis tossing one more lazy wink up at him before he slipped offstage, Harry felt as though he’d just had a religious experience. His body felt heavy and stiff, mind racing and floaty, as his heart began to thrum rapidly in his chest as he realized Louis was coming up to meet him soon.

As though he was surfacing after a long dive without air, Harry snapped into action. Almost unconsciously, he began to preen, adjusting himself, fixing his hair, unbuttoning another button on his sheer black shirt, allowing it to spill open to his navel, almost allowing his mind to wander thinking what it would feel like to have Louis’s eyes on him.

It took one more shot of his rose before he finally caught sight of Louis slipping out from where he had disappeared from, donned in a black silk robe and skin-tight leggings to cover his costume.

As he stepped into the light, Harry felt the breath catch in his throat for what felt like the hundredth time that night as he realized that Louis was wearing makeup. He looked beautiful, absolutely stunning, his face dusted with a rosy rogue, fake freckles dotting across his beautiful nose, eyeliner sharp enough to strike and eyelashes long enough to touch heaven. Even his perfect lips were coated in a slightly tinted glittery pink gloss, causing them to smack when he opened his beautiful lips to speak.

“Did you like the show?” He asked simply, smiling as he slid into the stool next to Harry, giving a simple nod to Julian before returning his full and rapt attention to Harry.

Harry couldn’t find his words for a moment, barely managing a nod, struggling to speak when all he could see was Louis’ perfect body, his beautiful blue eyes, staring directly at him. He was staring so intently, it was as though the spotlight from the stage had fixated directly onto him.

Louis nodded back, but his lips twitched downwards, pulling his gaze away to grip the fresh drink Julian had made him. If Harry didn’t know better, he’d think he would’ve looked disappointed, almost embarrassed.

Finally, Harry’s voice clicked into place. “You were beautiful, Lou,” he rasped, willing himself to speak despite his dried out mouth.

Louis looked up at him, eyes sparkling beneath the layers of black makeup. “Yeah? I hope I did it justice. It’s a fantastic song.”

Harry didn’t even acknowledge the compliment Louis gave him, wanting nothing more than to bring a smile back onto his face. “You did it justice, Louis, so much fucking justice. I couldn’t have performed like that if I’d tried. You’re so fantastic, so hot, literally one of the best I’ve ever seen.”

Louis rolled his eyes, sipping on his drink, but he was unable to hide his smile. “I doubt that. I’m new here, and it’s obvious so are you; there are so many talented dancers here it’s unreal. Just you wait.”

“I want to watch you dance.”

Louis waved off his comment with a flick of his wrist. “Sure, sure, that’s what they all say.”

Harry’s eyebrows knitted together, his lips quivering as he finished off his drink, slamming it down on the counter alongside a tip and payment for Julian before he spoke. “Do you not believe me?”

Louis slammed down his empty glass next to Harry, pocketing the change he’d left there for Julian. “I’ll cover your drinks, big boy. Just worry about me.” He sighed before turning back to Harry. “Of course I do.”

The words set Harry’s warm body alight, but when he looked into Louis’s eyes, it was almost as though something was not quite there anymore. He was smirking, he was gazing intently, but there was something hidden behind his ocean eyes.

Harry’s hand unconsciously made its way up to Louis’s cheeks, hovering barely next to it, hesitating to touch him. “What did I say,” he breathed, almost too quiet to hear.

Louis blinked at the question. “What?”

“You drew back from me. Back into your shell. What did I say wrong?”

“I—you—what? How do you know that I did that?”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “So you admit you did? I was right?”

“No—I mean, yes—I mean—Jesus Christ, Harry, what?”

“Louis, what did I say? I don’t want to offend you. Please. I’d like to actually get to know you, and I don’t like to offend my friends.”

Louis blinked, but a small smile played on the ends of his lips as he pulled his new drink up to his mouth. “So we’re friends now, hm?”

Harry couldn’t hide his own smirk. “Really hot friends.”

Louis grinned, downing another sip, but as he pulled away, Harry caught a glance of the distant look in his eyes again. He gently reached up to touch him again, fingertips barely brushing against his perfect skin until Louis’s looked back up at him.

“There it is again,” he breathed. “Louis, what did I say? Is it because I called you hot?”

Louis stayed silent, but the quiet between them spoke volumes.

“Oh, Louis, I’m sorry. I didn’t think. I’m sure you must get called that all the time.”

Louis sighed, turning his gaze away from Harry. “It’s fine, dear. I don’t mind.”

Harry shook his head. “You clearly do. I want us to actually get along, you know. I won’t call you anything like that again.” He crossed his heart and held up three fingers, side by side. “Scout’s honor.”

That got his attention again, a giggle bubbling low in his throat. “You were a scout? Now there’s a sight I’d like to see.”

“Hey,” Harry whined, mock-offended, “I’ll have you know that I took my civic duty very seriously as a child.”

“Did you know?” Louis crooned. “Tell me more about it.”

Harry faltered. “You—you want me to talk about my childhood?”

“I want you to talk about you. ISn’t that what friends do, after all? Get to know each other?”

“That might take a while.”

Louis leaned forward, resting his elbow on his knee and his chin on his hand. “I’ve got nowhere to be, sweetheart. Do you?”

Heart pounding fast in his chest, he carefully shook his head, and, with one more round of drinks delivered into their drunken hands, Harry began to slur out as many stories he could remember.


	7. Drunk On Each Other

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a short chapter--my apologies! i'm getting out ideas as i have them (i'm sorta flying by the seat of my pants as i write this) but i wanna update as much as possible! i hope y'all enjoy regardless<3

“So,” Louis slurred over the gloss-stained lip of his fourth drink that night, “Even though I didn’t really want to get a dog, I sorta felt like I had to, you know? I mean, fuck, he showed up on my doorstep! How can you deny that! Fate, innit?”

“You could certainly call it that.” Harry’s grin was lazy as it snaked across his slowing face, muscles feeling like a calm stream rather than the raging river they’d been all night. His thumb was lazily stroking Louis’s knee, face leaning closer and closer to his every few minutes, though if it was to hear him better or to try and kiss him he couldn’t be sure. All he knew is that Louis was a star and he was a planet hopelessly caught in his orbit.

Louis watched Harry watch him, blue eyes lolling shamelessly up and down his body. “What,” he whispered, though his voice sounded more seductive than accusatory, “You don’t believe me?”

Harry felt his jeans go tight as he watched Louis’s tongue snake across his luscious pink lips. “No,” Harry said, only as an excuse to lean even closer to his smirking, taunting face. Then, in a rush of boldness and ecstasy, he whispered in a voice almost too low to hear: “Make me.”

Louis’s face barely flickered in recognition before he slammed his lips into Harry’s.

Whatever glass wall they’d built between themselves, whatever boundary they’d made, shattered the second their lips met. They were no longer dancer and observer, escort and patron, confidence and anxiety: they simply were, and that was all they’d ever needed. And Harry couldn’t get enough of it.

He kissed Louis like he was dying, like he’d just seen his first glimpse of heaven and he couldn’t wait to get there. His lip gloss tasted like strawberries and summertime, his hands, his body, warm and receptive to his touch. Where he beckoned Louis came, where he touched he curled perfectly beneath him. It was everything he didn’t know he had always wanted.

For one blissfully beautiful moment, everything else fell away and it was simply him and Louis.

And then, with the sound of harsh glass slamming on a bar, they broke apart. Breathless, Louis’s mouth was hot on Harry’s skin, his eyes wild and lolling as he struggled to come back down to reality.

“Tomlinson!” A harsh voice barked, a low and gravelly, everything Louis wasn’t. “What are you doing?”

Louis sighed, turning his eyes downcast and gritting his teeth before he turned from the voice. Harry tensed, not sure what to expect, but when Louis’s hand surreptitiously slid into his, and his thumb slid gently across his knuckle, he got a feeling that everything was going to be fine.

“I’m with a patron, Si, obviously.” He swiveled his body on the stool to reveal Harry’s face to the man. “See?”

Harry took in the man facing him. He looked out-of-place in the establishment, a man clad in a perfect trim black business suit, salt-and-pepper hair tossing the low lights across his head in a speckled pattern that resembled the aftermath of a sneeze. His eyes were steely when they looked at Louis, but when they landed on Harry, a flicker f recognition raced through them before his grimace was peeled off, replaced with the biggest smile.

“Well, well, well,” he said, approaching Harry with a swagger he knew all too commonly. Businessmen types were all the same, regardless of if they were selling food, music, sex, or drugs—they all came with a similar slime. “I can’t say I’d ever imagined this day would come.” He stuck out his hand. “My name is Simon Cowell.”

Louis looked absolutely nauseated, the knuckles of his free hand gripped tightly on his thigh, his eyes carefully trained on Harry as he watched the interaction. With a slight raise of his eyebrow, Harry blatantly ignored the handshake. “Harry Styles,” he said simply in return.

Simon seemed to ignore Harry’s blasé nature entirely. “Charmed. To be sure, sir, we are incredibly thankful to have your business here. It means more to us than I can express in words. If you like what you see, I can get you an exclusive marketing deal with us—“

Harry cut him off with a simple raise of his hand. “No presses. Period.” Then, as an afterthought, he added, “Please.”

This seemed to rattle Simon, who quickly drew a hand over what was left of his hair before moving on with his pitch, speaking like a well-oiled machine. “Very well, sir. I completely understand that—every man has his vices, ah? Some things are left better private. If you like, then, I can set you up with our VIP dancers for a private experience—free of charge, of course—I can see you’ve been having a good time so far, but I promise you, the best has yet to come—“

For a moment, Harry only saw red. The haze of the room infected his visit, and, before he realized what had happened, he had turned his body, sliding a possessive hand across Louis’s body before turning to Simon with what he could have only described as a snarl. “I’ve seen enough, thanks. I like what—who—I’ve found thus far. I won’t be in any need of your services.”

Louis’s mouth gaped open, unabashed in his shock, and Simon, while he hid his emotions better, it was clear he felt the same way too. A shock rippled through his rattled body, and when he opened his mouth to speak again, he seemed to rock, the machine of his mind sputtering as he struggled to salvage the situation.

“Ah, well, yes, of course, I can see that sir—I’m sorry to have—I’m glad you’re—I—have a wonderful evening, Mr. Styles. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to improve your experience here at 17Black. For your trouble, your drinks are on the house. Consider it a gift, yes?”

Harry grit his teeth, his jaw tight, but he nodded, curt in his acceptance. Simon smiled, nodding at Harry once more before turning to Louis, leaning in close to his ear. In an almost imperceptible whisper, he breathed: “Treat him well,” before turning on his heel and disappearing into the hazy lights.

Louis turned to Harry, eyes looking so wide and doe-like that if Harry didn’t know better he would’ve said they were brimming with tears. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out, his jaw hanging open loosely like a porch swing in the breeze.

exhilarated by his confidence and driven by his drunkenness, Harry took advantage of the situation. “Come to my rehearsal with me.”

This startled Louis more than anything else he could have said, a visible shock running through his body. “I—what?”

Harry pressed on, at first startled but now adamant in his admission. “Forget about everything that just happened. Come to my rehearsal tomorrow. My second show is at the end of this week, but I have a soundcheck tomorrow at 10am. Come with me.”

Louis balked, eyes scanning him, scanning behind him, for some sort of escape, for any sign of a trick. “Harry, I—are you sure you want me there?”

Harry reached out, grasping Louis’s hand tightly in his. “More sure than anything I’ve ever been in my fucking life.”

Blue eyes wide, but an uncontainable smile broke out on his face, and, soon, his energy was so much that Harry had to match his smile too. Grinning and giddy, laughing and holding each other in their arms, they fell into one another, fell for one another, floating high above the measly room as they downed shot after shot of liquid sunshine, almost entirely drunk on each other.


End file.
